I am the Rain King
by xNeverenderx
Summary: Compulsion: An irresistible impulse to act, regardless of the rationality of the motivation. Usually in response to a insistent internal conflict or desire.
1. The Queen of California

Hey Guys. I don't post my fanfiction, I write for myself. But- I guess it's important to put yourself out there and lately I've been feeling a bit like a leech, reading all these wonderful stories but being afraid to post my own.

I like constructive criticism- not just on whether or not you like my story- I'd also appreciate critiques on the writing itself.

I haven't decided when this takes place in the cannon. For now lets just say it's set after "Original Songs" and before Tuseday's new episode. I'm sure this will veer into a wild AU, but that's alright.

[Edit. I'm sorry, there was some formatting issues, but I've fixed them now.]

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><p>Ch1. Queen of California<p>

Kurt's head jerked off his folded arms at the sudden soft sound. A hasty glance at his bedside clock informed him of the hour, 1: 15 a.m. It was the second night this week he had fallen asleep fully clothed and un-moisturized. He silently cursed every single contributor to the field of chemistry, holding them all personally responsible for the lizard like skin he was sure to have tomorrow.

The sound came again, a soft tinkle on his windowpane. Kurt watched as tiny pebbles hit the glass, sounding brightly before falling back into the dark. Curious, he put aside his textbook and padded to the window, pushing it open and letting in the night. It was early April, and while the air was still chilled, the patchy string section provided by a few early crickets spoke of the returning spring. From his window a square of light fell across the lawn, the only aid to the sickle moon and its spattering of stars in the early morning darkness.

"Hello?" Kurt cried softly, his voice tentative and surely lost in the night. There was no one to be seen, and no response. Slightly louder he spoke again, "Is anyone there?" Again, no word answered him, no sound but the soft, rhythmic strumming of an acoustic guitar that came floating from beneath his window. Kurt's heart compressed, his throat constricting. Could it be? Had Blaine finally…? But the thought was shattered when a voice began to sing, a deep tenor rough but sweet, practiced but untrained. A voice that could only be the antithesis of Blaine's.

_"I was wasted in the afternoon,_

_Waiting on a train_

_I woke up in pieces and Elizabeth_

_Disappeared again."_

Kurt quickly racked his brain, trying to think of who it could be and finding it hard to concentrate over the pounding of his heart. Which of the Warblers could feel this strongly about him? How could he not have noticed?

_"Well I wish you were inside of me,_

_I hope that you're okay._

_I hope you're resting quietly,_

_I just wanted to say-"_

Perhaps that quiet blonde freshman- Sebastian? Or was his name Samson? Kurt's cheeks flushed, and he leaned gently on the sill, his long eyelashes fluttering to rest on his cheek.

_"Good-Goodnight Elizabeth_

_Goodnight Elizabeth, goodnight._

_Good-Goodnight Elizabeth_

_Goodnight Elizabeth, goodnight."_

Idly, unbidden from the back of his consciousness, he wondered how this boy had known his middle name. Had he even told Blaine? But Kurt didn't really care; he was busy being enamored with this moment. This perfect existence.

_"We couldn't all be cowboys,_

_Some of us are clowns "_

At this the voice broke a little, though whether with uncertainty or emotion, Kurt couldn't tell.

_"Some of us are dancers on the midway,_

_We roam from town to town_

_I hope that everybody_

_Will find a little flame._

_Maybe I should say my prayers_

_And I just light myself on fire_

_And walk out on the wire once again._

_And I Say-_

_Good-Goodnight Elizabeth,"_

As the voice moved on to the chorus and gave away into the short, uncomplicated guitar solo, Kurt couldn't help but sigh, and lean further out the window desperate to catch a glimpse of his mysterious crooner. Whoever he was, he knew exactly what to do to get Kurt's attention. The boy stepped out of the shadow of the building, silhouetted now, but not quite visible. Kurt's breath caught as he realized that this _man _was too big to be Sebastian.

_"I will wait for you in Baton Rouge_

_'ll see you down in New Orleans_

_Wait for you while she slips into something comfortable_

_I'll miss you when I'm slipping in-between"_

In fact he was far bigger than anyone in Kurt's close circle of friends. His heart beat faster, as he realized that this, this was a secret admirer. A boy too shy to approach him, clandestinely pining for _who _knows how long, comfortable only when expressing his feelings in this shadowy serenade. The delicate young man's hand found its way upon his chest, as if attempting to keep his heart from beating free of its organic cage, and flying down to its new owner, this thief in the night.

_"If you wrap yourself in daffodils_

_Then I will wrap myself in pain"_

The boy stepped finally into the square of light, his head still downturned but his voice swelling with a new found confidence as he sang-

_"And if you're the Queen of California_

_Than I am the King of the Rain"_

He was of average height but muscular, with the broad shoulders that only come from generations of selectively bred farm stock. The tight black tee-shirt clung to his muscular torso and defined arms, and his jeans were old and worn. His face was hidden by a low slung baseball cap, and his head was carefully tilted to maximize shadow as he sang the now familiar chorus. Oh Gaga, he was definitely swoon worthy.

_"-Good night Elizabeth, goodnight._

_The moon is a satellite, yeah_

_Now, won't you fall down on me now_

_Won't you fall down on me_

_Oh, f-f-fall down on me now_

_Won't you fall down on me"_

Kurt was leaning further out the window now, so far that it was completely possible that he might topple out. When the mystery boy finished singing, Kurt would run down into his waiting arms, and kiss him breathless without even knowing his name. This was who he had been waiting for, this man, this moment. This was love.

_"Cause I'm all alone_

_You ain't coming home_

_You just settle down, down, down into bone."_

The singers voice broke again, and Kurt couldn't help but wonder why he had picked such a sad song. Sure it was beautiful and it did have his (middle) name in it but still…wasn't a declaration of love supposed to be happy? The voice continued to falter, and Kurt imagined he could almost hear the edge of a sob.

_"Cause I'm all alone._

_You ain't coming home_

_We just settle down, down, down into bone."_

On the last strum of the final chord, the boy lifted his head, the shadows falling from his face to reveal-

Karofsky.

Kurt gasped, drawing back from the window, hands suddenly pressed against his mouth. His heart was plummeting, through his stomach, through his feet, far below the floorboards. The two boys stared at each other for moments, hours, days. Kurt couldn't help but notice through the numbness that had enveloped him how thin Karofsky's face looked. How tired and haggard and wan. How tightly his lips were pressed together, how his chocolate eyes seemed to glisten in the light. It was Karofsky who turned from Kurt, Karofsky who got into the beat up pickup truck and drove away. Kurt stood staring out into the nocturne, speechless, sightless, and aghast. On his bedside table the clock read 1:23 a.m.

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><p>When Kurt woke, it was as a dream. A perverted dreamscape of crystalline sights and sounds. Of feelings. The crisp starlight, the tepid breeze, the soft melody he couldn't help but hum. All of this was due only to his sleeping consciousness, a chemical imbalance, a visceral reaction to the café mocha he had been sipping before his body had decided that a surplus of caffeine simply wasn't enough. Because David Karofsky was an unfeeling, unapologetic Neanderthal, a coward with no talent for anything but being brutish.<p>

A pleasant dream and nothing more. A descendant nightmare, easily forgotten.

Or it was. That was before Blaine brought in the box.

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><p>Disclaimer:<em> Glee<em> is copyright Fox Broadcasting Company. "Goodnight Elizabeth" was written and preformed by The Counting Crows. I claim no ownership of either.

I recommend listening to the song on youtube, especially if you have a habit of skipping lyrics. It's very beautiful, and the words are integral to the plot.

Thank you so much for reading, I would really appreciate any questions, comments or concerns.

*The Neverender*


	2. Omaha

Hey guys! I was really excited to get so much positive feedback. Thanks for all the kind reviews, feedback, favorites and alerts.

Note on Dave: There was a few comments that a serenade was out of character for Dave. And I thought about it and...it appears I have been reading to much fanfiction. So much in fact, that I completely forgot the idea of Dave as a "Beast/Prince Adam" type was completely unsupported in the show. The whole persona of a bully with a tortured soul, desperate to make amends but unable to because of cowardice is a completely projected fantasy of those of us who connect with the outcast who is unable to stand up proudly for who he is and so chooses to lash out to protect himself (at the alternative of cowering in fear). They say everyone loves an underdog. Despite Dave's being the aggressor, a pitiable character is what the viewer recognizes he has always been- someone confused and desperate without the tools needed to deal with his problems. Even though Kurt and Blaine are on the receiving end of abuse, I would never describe either character as a victim. They have a strength of character, a steeled heart, a rare confidence, a sense of self that to be a true "victim" one must take away. Dave never had any of these things to begin with.

Whether cannon supports our reformed villain theory or throws him under the bus as a cautionary tale-I will keep this Dave. Our Dave. Because if I can't keep faith for fictional T.V. characters, if I can't believe that all men are born ( whether from the body or the mind) intrinsically good, how can I not die of despair? It's just to depressing to contemplate.

Also, in a show where every character (even the town dentist) can sing on a near professional level, I don't really think serenading someone is ever out of character. Just throwing that out there.

That's my explanation. Enjoy.

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><p>Ch2. "Omaha"<p>

A box is innocent in its self. A box is an infinite possibility. A geometric shape, Schrodinger's coffin. Unmarked besides the name of the intended, a dimension of mystery and anticipation is added- a tension unable to be relieved until the lid is lifted. Until opened, a box can be everything and nothing at all.

Kurt was unsurprised by the return of the little marital figurines- the smiling bride and groom were familiar and unchanged. The flowers however _were_ a nice touch- slightly wilted from sitting out all night-but the daffodils were showing a brave face. And who would have thought a Neanderthal would know that flowers were the perfect present for apologies.

No, it was the folded piece of printer paper that he found shocking, hidden beneath the wilted flowers. Placed at the bottom of the box, it was clearly not an afterthought but the _reason_ for the- well what could only be loosely described as a "gift."The note that turned an innocuous gift into an explosive terrorist device. Kurt unfolded it solemnly, with the reverence he felt the occasion deserved. What the creased stationary contained was the _very soul_ of the giver, laid bare. Kurt was sure of it. In the middle of the vast white sheet of A4 was one tiny, scrawled sentence in cramped handwriting.

_I don't want your forgiveness.  
><em>

"You are fucking _kidding me_?"

Kurt's voice rose to an undignified shriek. He didn't even acknowledge Blaine's shocked expression as Kurt violently threw the offending box, scattering yellow flowers across the floor

Five words. Not a heartfelt explanation of why he had tormented Kurt into fleeing McKinley, no defense that he had been frightened, alone and confused. No begging Kurt to overlook his grievous ingress, no admonition that he, David Karofsky, was a changed man. No check of compensation for the thousands of dollars of dry-cleaning Kurt had spent trying to salvage wardrobe. Not even a pitiful confession of his deeply twisted undying love.

Kurt was enraged. His fists balled at his sides, crumpling the letter in his palm. He wanted to kick, and scream and-and-spit. He wanted to _growl. _Through the fire,Kurt recognized that he didn't know what he had been expecting, but it had been a fuck more than_ this.  
><em>

Poor Blaine, his face white and contorted in confusion and disbelief as his sweet, delicate friend went into what appeared to be a blood rage, chose this moment to inquire,

"Who is it from?"

Suddenly, Kurt was calm. Immediately and eerily he stood, completely motionless for a full minute before turning his head. He seemed to have recovered his composure flawlessly. Blaine unconsciously took a step back, a gasp catching in his throat. Kurt's voice was barely above a whisper-but the animosity and frustration was as evident as if he had been screaming and gnashing his teeth.

"David. Karofsky."

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><p>The sun streaming through the venetian blinds threw bars of alternating light and shadow on the double bed's forest green comforter. But for the first time in a long time they did not invoke in Dave the image of a prison. It was as if he had lost 100 pounds overnight, all from the vicinity of his heart.<p>

There was nothing in the second drawer of his bedside table. No smiling set of ceramic figurines, no clipped out school and newspaper photos, no vial of Obsession for men, no handwritten note from the one and only time_ he_ had been in Dave's study group freshman year. Every last memento was gone, and in place of the binding, all-consuming weight that came from loving someone so far out of his league was now only a bittersweet emptiness.

Dave had orchestrated the perfect apology- he knew that perfect was the only thing Kurt would ever accept. And clandestine music was the only Kurt would have ever heard him out- he certainly wouldn't have sat there quietly while Dave stumbled over fractured inadequate mutterings. No, music had been the only way.

It had taken every ounce of courage that he could scrape together, weeks of practice, three consecutive nights of driving to Dalton and sitting in his truck until the dawn. But last night he had gotten out of the truck.

It had been humiliating, and terrifying- but Dave needed Kurt to know that he was sincere. He had needed to tell Kurt _everything,_ but he couldn't say it-or even write it down. The ream of paper crumpled in his trash was testament to that inability. So he had borrowed the words. You're gone, it's my fault_, _I'm sorry I'll always be half in love with you_, _I'm a coward and an ass and your _everything- _but don't worry because I promise- you might as well be dead for all I'll see you. At least that's what Dave had thought he'd said_. _Through the pained words of another man, everything had been explained. _  
><em>

And after, well he hadn't waited around- Dave had seen Kurt's reaction when he'd realized who was standing outside his window. He hadn't even had the balls to give him the box in person, or even hang around to see if Kurt got it. Much less sign his name to the thing.

When all was said and done, Dave was still as much a coward as he had ever been. But this time, he had been the one smart enough to leave. He had said his goodbye. He was moving on. This was the best course for everyone.

Closure. That was the word his therapist had used. He needed to start turning the wool over the wire. With her help he had walked past the lamppost, out of the wardrobe, and come out to his parents. Who, to his surprise- hadn't been. Apparently never going out on a date, avoiding the topic of sexuality, and his mild obsession with the movie _300_ had been a bit of a tip-off.

Dave had accepted that he was never going to be out in high-school- he wasn't brave enough for that. But he had come out to his parents….and Az. And like his parents, his best friend since the age of 3 had, if not been expecting it, been very supportive. In fact, a little to supportive. Dave had managed to convince him that, just because he liked men did not mean he had to be handled with the proverbial "kid gloves." Of course he couldn't stop Az from laying down a fist enforced, unexplained "no homo jokes" law in the locker room, or offering to set him up with his cousin's gay best friend. Or from demanding that he befriend and then get Az in good with Mercedes Jones who apparently "had a thing for them gays."

Four people-well five- people knew what kind of porn he preferred and he was aiming to keep it that way. When he was far away from Ohio, on a Hockey scholarship to his dream college, he'd join the campus's GBLT club and find himself a nice little boyfriend with delicate bone structure, a cute little upturned nose and a cutting wit. He'd be out and _proud_. In the present, he was still living with one foot in the closet- but that was better than hiding behind the dress shirts. And for the first time in the longest time, he was O.K.

But just O.K.

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><p>Kurt Hummel however, was not O.K.<p>

Far from it in fact.

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><p>Recommended Listening: "Omaha" by the Counting Crows<p>

Disclaimer: _Glee _is copyright Fox Broadcasting Corporation

Thanks so much for reading, any feed back is appreciated fully. I updated these quickly because they were mostly already written- but I probably won't have another till at least the middle of the week. Everybody enjoy Glee's return on Tuesday, it's been confirmed that our boy Karofsky will be in the episode! I'm so excited- he's really the most interesting character. Lets hope the writers are kind.

3 xoxo

The Neverender


	3. Feathers in My Hands

Hey Kids,

First, I'd like to thank you for all the faves reviews and alerts!

Second, I'd like to make a shout out to the red cut off sweatshirt our boy Max wore in Tuesday's episode. I think we need to petition for more of that, and less bulky Letterman jacket. Preferably next time sans gray tee-shirt. I do not appreciate my view of those sexy, sexy biceps biceps being obstructed. Mmmmmm...

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><p>Ch.3 Feathers in My Hand<p>

Late at night Kurt lay alone in his bed, thinking about_ him_- and as his obsession grew so did his frustration. This is exactly what had driven Kurt to transfer. It hadn't been the bullying, or the death threat, not even the creepy winks and kleptomania. No, it had been the uncertainty, the anticipation. With a single kiss, Karofsky had proven unpredictable. Before, at least Kurt had known what to expect- after it had seemed the Neanderthal was capable of anything. The insomnia, the paranoia, the skittishness, the real_ fear_- all had begun after the locker room showdown. And once he had transferred, the tension had been gone. In all honesty, Kurt hadn't spared the briefest thought for Dave Karofsky in over three months. Out of sight, out of mind as they say.

But now, Dave was all he could think about. The Dave who listened to Counting Crows and played guitar. The boy who staged an elaborate apology but didn't want to be forgiven. The bully who had made his life a living hell-but had kissed him with such a searing desperation that even now, after all this time of being banished to the very depths of his consciousness; Kurt could recall the event in perfect detail. That, and what had happened Tuesday night, played out in the silhouettes that appeared above his head. It was maddening.

And Blaine had noticed.

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><p>"Kurt."<p>

The porcelain doll did not respond, but continued to stare moodily out into the pale spring sun. Curled up in the back corner of the library, hidden behind the stacks, the delicate boy looked the very picture of romantic contemplation. And it was causing Blaine to become extremely exasperated. In a display of uncharacteristic impatience, he yanked out one of Kurt's HeartBeats.

"It's been over a week. Haven't you tired of listening for hidden meaning in _Hard Candy_?:

Kurt blushed a becoming shade of rose from his cheek bones to his clavicle. He looked sideways and began putting away his iPod, face contorting in a veiled attempt to regain some of his usual haughty disinterest.

"Blaine, I-"

"No Kurt." The dapper youth dropped heavily into the chair across the table with a sigh. "Some guy, that you hate by the way, mysteriously serenades you with a 90's rock ballad and what do you do? Download the Counting Crow's entire discography and analyze it?"

Blaine had tried to be understanding about this. He had listened attentively while his best friend alternately raged, sobbed and speculated over last Tuesday's "event." He had witnessed Kurt's midnight walks through the dark corridors of Dalton Hall, the smoky voice of Adam Duritz his only companion. He had watched him sulk inattentively through classes, coffee dates and Warblers practice. In short, he had had enough.

"Why are you doing this Kurt?" Blaine's voice had softened, and he reached across the table to rest his hand tenderly over Kurt's. "Do you think he's changed?" The intonation used clearly expressed how little faith _Blaine_ found in the query.

"No I-I just-I-" Kurt's voice trailed off and he suddenly became very interested in the wood grain. "I mean he was just such a villain!" He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if the explanation could only be found beside the crown molding, his words coming quicker and quicker, like a record set up a speed. "And then when he kissed me, hating him became even easier. It was like being in a bad production of _Babes in Toyland_ and I was Miss Mary." He sighed cradling his head in his hands, still avoiding Blaine's gaze. "And now…now its just hard for me to keep believing that he goes home every night to his damp lair and spends the evenings perfecting his sneer in the bathroom mirror and honing his slushy technique."

Blaine smiled, a slow even grin that spoke of barely contained amusement. "Are you saying that it's difficult for you to imagine that Karofsky has more depth than a Disney Villain?"

"Yes!" Kurt all but shouted, throwing his hands into the air. This garnered some disapproving stares from the boys' fellow library patrons, but the only acknowledgment that those people received was Kurt continuing in a slightly more subdued tone. "I mean, who is this guy who puts all this effort into staging the perfect apology, then makes it completely cryptic? And on top of that he just throws out there that he doesn't want to be forgiven? Why this song? Why this band? What does it _mean_?" Kurt left the last, and probably most important issue unsaid. _And was this complexity buried beneath the meat head facade the whole time?"_

Blaine leaned back in his chair, contemplative. "I guess we'll never know, I mean unless he decides to follow up Tuesday's performance with the annotated version."

Kurt's head jerked up suddenly, a revelation of revulsion and triumph mixed across his clever features. Just as unexpectedly the willowy brunette had leapt to his feet and bolted for the door, tossing his bag and a "See you tomorrow!" over his shoulder.

"Kurt!" Blaine gasped, jumping to his feet in an attempt to follow. But by the time he had made it to the hallway, Kurt was long gone.

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><p>The hour and a half drive had done wonders for Kurt's mood. When he had left Dalton, he had been confused, anxious and slightly annoyed. By the time he has stormed into McKinley he was right royally pissed. How dare <em>he<em> just _insert_ himself back into Kurt's life again? How dare he grant Kurt three months of peace and then, in one fell swoop just take it all away? It was just…arrogant! He wouldn't allow Kurofsky to wield this sort of power over him. All this he had thought on the ride over. But there weren't any more cohesive thoughts forming in Kurt's rage tinted brain, just disconnected syllables of fury.

Kurt threw open the doors of the locker room and Karofsky…wasn't there.

The young man stopped, slumping against the lockers as like a rag doll. It was inconceivable, Karofsky's absence. Where else would he be? Where else would he go? Whatever happened to poetic justice?

"Kurt?"

Sam, shirtless, abs glistening in the fluorescent light, stepped out of the shadowy weight room. "Dude, you just missed Finn, he's-"

Kurt amputated the rest of Sam's explanation with Spartan precision. "Where's Karofsky?"

Sam shook his head, his mouth widening into a (mis)understanding smile. "Man, don't worry. Beiste's making him run like, 30 extra laps for-"

But Kurt was gone; barreling past the suicidal blonde* and slamming through the double doors that led out onto the field, vigor renewed.

"-always being late for practice." Sam finished, shaking his Bieber mop out of his eyes and grabbing for a tee-shirt. "Jeez," he said aloud as he pulled it over his head. "What is that about?"

* * *

><p>Kurt's rage was back with a vengeance. He tossed his messenger bag roughly onto the bleachers and ran out onto the track, seething. The sky was steely and unforgiving, a foreboding rumble heralding the future weather. He could see Karofsky's back, he was wearing a red cutoff sweatshirt that stood out from the monochromatic environment like a toreador's cape, beckoning to something primal within the china boy. The bully was about a quarter of the track away, and Kurt couldn't close the distance fast enough.<p>

"Hey you! Kurofsky!"

Kurt hadn't expected him to stop, hadn't expected he would turn around, and subsequently hadn't expected to sprint into a wall of solid, unyielding muscle. And the fact that Karofsky was solid, and unyielding, just made Kurt the more furious.

"What the hell is your problem?" Kurt shrieked, glaring up at the boy who was currently towering over him looking almost comically confused. "Are you trying to drive me out of my mind?" The smaller boy stabbed his finger into the broad expanse of chest before him. "Driving me out of this school wasn't enough?"

Kurofsky's fists clenched and unclenched by his sides, and his voice was ragged. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop yelling at me."

Kurt laughed. A hard, manic, cynical sound devoid of humor. "Oh, well, look who's learned how to use their words."

Karofsky's hand's contracted into themselves again, but did not release. Instead, he tilted his head back and looked out into the neutral firmament. His voice was soft, strained, tired, and infuriatingly even. "What do you _want_ from me?"

This time it was Kurt's hands balled into fists. "I want a fucking explanation!"

The jock looked down at him, his expression pained. "I thought I pretty much said it all, Fancy."

Kurt had never been so angry. Not in the locker room, not when Blaine had decided to serenade that retail slave, not even when Finn had crushed his most favorite fabulous hat. He was physically shaking with emotion. He raised his fist (to punch Karofsky? Slap him? Pull his hair? Kurt wasn't thinking that far in advance.) but it was imprisoned before it could connect. The smaller boy immediately came at Dave with his left, this time with the full intention of punching the Neanderthal right in his ugly mug, but the wrist of that hand was restrained just as quickly. Karofsky's massive paws easily encircled Kurt's delicate wrists, holding them gently but firmly immobile. His hands were so big, and hot, and obnoxiously strong that even as Kurt struggled pugnaciously against them, he knew there was no hope of breaking free. Thunder rumbled, closer than it had before, and Kurt glared up at his captor, twisting futilely back and forth, a sob of frustration escaping his parted lips.

"Kurt." Daves said calmly, imploring; the sentiment mirrored in his doe brown eyes. "Please stop. You know you're not the violent type."

That sent Kurt right over the edge.

He lunged forward with a ferocity seldom seen outside the Serengeti. He was going to bite Dave Karofsky. He was going to inflict as much pain on the man before him as one possibly could without the use of arms. He was going to rip the flesh from the bone and he was- he was- kissing him.

He was ravaging his chapped lips, pressing lasciviously against the contours of the other boy's overheated body, enveloped in a haze of Old Spice and sweat. He wasn't thinking, he didn't care, he could only feel as the current ripped through him, and he was _alive_.

But then he wasn't.

Kurt was stumbling backwards, and Dave's face was the locker room all over again. The jock was backing from away him, slowly like one backs away from a wild animal, like one would retreat from a _threat_.

"Kurt I-I'm sorry- please- I just- _I just can't be around you_."

And then he was gone, a fleck of red fading into the horizon gray.

The sky opened up.

The rain came down.

And still, Kurt stood motionless.

* * *

><p>*"She was what we used to call a suicide blonde- dyed by her own hand." -Saul Bellows<p>

Recommended listening- "Angels of the Silences" by the Counting Crows

Disclaimer: Glee is Copy write Fox Broadcasting Corporation

And there you go. As always, feed back is extremely appreciated...I have a vauge idea where this is going- or I did. It dosn't seem to be playing out the way I thought it would. Oh well. Everyone have a nice weekend!

The Neverender


	4. Film's About Ghosts

Ch.4 Films about Ghosts

The sound of his name stopped his heart. He was clearly dead or dreaming, because that voice was an impossibility. However Dave's feet were traitorous, and like his heart ignored what his brain told them to be true-turning him around to see for themselves.

The impact was brief, contact momentous. What he knew by touch he verified through sight- the stormy teal eyes and flushed skin, the auburn hair that could not be called tousled but yet was uncharacteristically out of place. And in one breath, Dave was consumed and reactive.

He refused to give in to the screaming of his nerve endings, the dueling adoration and jealous hate, the triumphant return of the endless unconscious recitation- _I want, I want, I want. _Had he forgotten the frustration, the pain, the madness? No. The intensity though, had slipped his mind. Dave tried not to look, hoping the passive action would help him retain some shred of himself, as if eye contact was the only way Hummel could work his wretched spell. But the forbidden cologne was inescapable. Obsession. It was as if _he knew_.

The hulking jock silently recited his mantras of self-control, steadfast in battling the constant refrain _(I want, I want, I want_- although exactly_ what_, as ever, escaped him). He needed him to be quiet- he needed to _think_- if he hit him he'd probably shut up- Dave quickly quashed the impulse. He barely registered when Hummel demanded an explanation- but when the demand had sunk in, Dave felt his most tempestuous organ ice over. And like the stone he had oft willed it to become, cold seeped into the cracks, expanded, and exploded within. He felt the shrapnel pierce his most vital places and knock the air from his defenseless lungs. How could he respond? Only with the truth.

"I thought I pretty much said it all, Fancy."

As expected, the truth simply wasn't good enough.

Dave caught the first swing purely on reflex. If he had thought about it, he would have just let Hummel pummel him with his tiny fists until the smaller boy was worn out. It was the least he could do, to just stand silently and take the well-deserved abuse.

Unfortunately the jock had already caught the delicate right arm, and so felt obliged to restrain the left also. Fancy was above petty banalities like violence. Dave would later recall stating the fact, the ethereal creature straining before him, vibrating with sound and fury.

But then perfection was pressed up against him, soft hungry lips imploring him to yield beneath them, a wet wicked tongue darting across his lower lip, all wrapped up in the scent of that god dammed cologne. Dave could feel himself unraveling, could hear the voice shattering, resonating throughout every fiber of his frame. He was teetering on the edge of self-control and Kurt was pushing him back into the chaotic abyss.

In a single moment of clarity, Dave surfaced from the sensory overload to wonder at how the younger boy could be so cruel as to allow him to fight his way out of the pit just to throw him back of the summit. And in that instant Dave did the only thing he could to save himself. He broke contact.

He wanted to run, but the Neanderthal in him wouldn't allow it. He wasn't thinking, he was battling instinct with instinct. He backed off cautiously, struggling for something to say- someway to explain. But as always, language failed him.

* * *

><p><em>And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings<em>

* * *

><p>It hadn't looked like the office of a shrink. The dusty bookshelves, the reclining couch, the straight laced crossed leg professor sporting pince-nez were all missing. Instead, it resembled nothing so much as a bright and cheerful country kitchen, a two-page spread out of a glossy Pottery Barn magazine. Which really, wasn't altogether that surprising as it <em>was <em>somebody's kitchen.

"You don't take honey, do you David?"

Dave nodded solemnly and glanced surreptitiously at Mrs. Potter across the granite island. The woman was aged and bent, with pink tinted hair cropped close in pin curls- probably the "it" look in cat lady Vogue. Dr. Monica Potter had been recommended by Miss Pillsbury, along with the quiet assurance that she was very effective with extremely...reluctant patients. Well, just because she wore her hair the same way as his Nana didn't mean Dave planned on letting his guard down for an instant.

He took the over-sized mug from her shaking hand (hot water and lemon, like his Nana) with a subdued smile and polite thank you. She lowered herself slowly onto the stool across from him and folded her hands neatly in front of her. "So then, David dear. Let's get down to brass tacks. Would you like a cookie?" She gestured gently to a plate of oatmeal raisin sitting beside the stove. "Just baked."

"No, thank you-I'm fine."

The old woman looked a bit put out. "You've visited me- oh how many sessions has it been?"

"Three Ma'am."

She smiled kindly, "Only three? Ah, well you have refused my cookies each and every time young man. Do you not like sweets?"

"Oh, I-ah- I'm trying to- you know-watch my weight."

"Ah." Mrs. Potter nodded sagely. " I should have guessed. The only way a growing boy would deny himself one of my cookies would be if he was trying to impress some pretty young thing."

Dave felt the blood drain from his face. Her razor perception had cut just a little too deep. He quickly quelled the violent reaction welling up inside his chest to vehemently deny, and filed away the knowledge that even the most innocuous comment apparently could be used to pick him apart.

The therapist giggled girlishly at his sudden pallor. "Ah dear, don't you fret. I'm not going to pry into your love life."

* * *

><p>"What do you dream about, David dear?"<p>

The question caught him off guard; he was absorbed in combing Henderson's orange fur into swirling patterns as the kitten sprawled content and purring in his lap. "Lot's of things."

The old woman laughed, it was warm and inviting and relaxed. She didn't look at him, but continued her task, wrapping gift boxes in shiny silver paper. "I always dream of Michelangelo around this time of year." She sighed contentedly, and cut a length of gold ribbon. "Do you have any reoccurring dreams?"

David paused a moment, as he always did before responding to any question she posed. Over the weeks, he'd come to like the strange old woman, and value the time they spent together. He always felt better after their sessions. It was a relief to talk to someone (not about _that_) and feel like they were listening. However Dave never forgot what was at stake, why he was really here. If he slipped up just once she'd betray him just as quickly as anyone else. After deciding that his reply could in no way be construed as having to do with _him_, the jock answered in earnest, if whimsically. "I dream I never know anyone at the party, but I'm always the host."

"_If dreams are like movies, than memories are films about ghosts._That's a song you know."

Dave's face broke open into a slow smile. This old lady was always full of surprises. "Yeah." He laughed quietly, gently turning the cat over so he could rub it's belly. "I know."

* * *

><p>Today, they were making pies; David rolling the dough out in flour, Mrs. Potter skinning and paring apples at a fiendish speed. They were always <em>doing<em> something; baking, playing with the cats, looking through crumbling sepia photo-albums. She had taught him to paint and to play the piano (which he had no skill for, but had diligently practiced). It was brilliant really, this constant movement of hands, immersing him, distracting him from why they were really here and what they were really talking about-his copious unresolved issues. He realized vaguely, that his defenses were crumbling before an wrinkled old matron with a soft voice and a kind hand. But maybe-that would be okay. If she guessed well, it's not like she'd tell his parents. She could help him, she'd already helped him get a reign on his anger- there were other emotions she could help him tame. These comforting thoughts however, resided in a reality composed of drowsy pipe dreams.

"David dear." The old woman put her pairing knife down, and looked over at him.

"Hmm?" he replied, preoccupied with his task and attempting not to fall over Henderson (now out of kitten-hood, and very fat) who was twining between his legs.

"You are uncommonly gentle with the cats."

"Mmm." Dave agreed, still not really paying attention. He hadn't used enough flour, and the crust was sticking to the counter top.

Mrs. Potter continued on, undeterred. "When we first started meeting, I was certain that yours was a case of hormone induced adolescent aggression. Very common, very treatable, you just need to be taught to channel it productively. Of course, I was surprised you felt no relief from playing sports but still I thought..."

Dave had gone still. His heart was pounding very hard, and it was making it difficult to hear.

"Of course the more time we spent together," she said reaching over to gently pat the back of his rigid his hand, "the more I realized that, while you are a boy much given over to strong emotion, frustration and anger are not your first response." Dave could feel the intense stare of her eyes on his face, compelling him to look at her. And so he did, raising his head to meet steely green eyes- the only feature that hinted at the true nature of the old woman. "In fact, it seems to me that the bullying has been a sort of smoke and mirrors act, distracting from a more..." Here she paused poignantly. "...personal issue." The old woman fixed him in her stare like a cobra does a bird. "Perhaps centering around that particular young man, what was it, Mr. Hummel?"

The floor dropped out beneath Dave's feet. He felt the anger and fear coiling up inside him, clawing their way up his throat. He struggled to contain them, clenching his fists and redirecting his gaze to the ceiling. _She doesn't know anything. She thinks you're homophobic that's all!_

The air was still, the room was silent, and Henderson jumped lightly onto a kitchen stool to better view the unfolding drama.

"Ah." Mrs. Potter turned away and began peeling the rest of the apples in the wheat wicker basket. "I thought so. Now David dear, would you preheat the oven to 350° ?

* * *

><p>He sat on the steps of her front porch for an hour before he had the courage to ring the door bell. He had watched the cobalt sky turn gold from the rooftop of his home, walked the chilled and misty streets of dawn only to find himself here. At first he had been waiting for a decent hour.<p>

Then he was just waiting.

"David dear?" The old woman answered the door in a paisley bathrobe, her hair still in curlers. "What on earth are you doing here so early?" Henderson snaked his way out between her legs, and Dave stooped to catch him up, clutching the cat to his chest.

"Mrs. Potter, I've been lying to you." He didn't wait for a response. The door had been opened, and everything he had locked behind it came tumbling out. "You were right about the bullying, about Kurt, about everything." His voice was breaking, he was losing his nerve. To the last, he was a coward.

"I-I-I'mgay."

* * *

><p>Alright, so I know therapists don't operate this way. I took an intro to psych class my senior year of high-school and that is the extent of my experience in this field. However, maybe the Miss Marple approach to therapy is something that they need to look into- you can learn allot about a person if you know what questions to ask and really listen to their answers.<p>

Also, would you kindly respond with feed back regarding the transition from present to memory vignettes? I didn't want to just write *flashback* or *Three months previous*...that's so very daytime soap.


	5. All the Little Things

Hey Kids, long time no see.

* * *

><p>Ch5. All The Little Things That Make up a Memory<p>

"Blaine, I may have-well, kissed him."  
>"You did what!"<br>"I didn't mean to!" Kurt hissed heatedly across the cafe table."I had all the innocent intentions of ripping his face off with my teeth."  
>Blaine slumped back in the seat back and shook his head wordlessly. His mouth was twisted sourly as he crossed his arms across his chest. The abrupt change in body posture seemed to go right over Kurt's head.<p>

"He-he ran away from me."

"I hope you brushed your teeth. Vigorously."

Disturbingly unobservant, Kurt took no notice of Blaine's uncharacteristic comment. "He looked at me-I don't know- it was almost as if he was _afraid of me._" Blaine vocalized his disbelief, the effort of which contorted his face unbecomingly. The pale boy opposing him sank his head into an open palm, leaning into it. He looked distraught- as if the idea of Dave being terrified of him was horrifying to think about. As if he felt guilty about it. Unbelievable. Blaine searched for the perfect thing to say. He always had the perfect thing to say.

"He's a coward." Blaine smiled indulgently and enclosed one of Kurt's pale hands within his own. "A true bully, more afraid of you than you ever were of him." He turned up the grin a hundred watts, bright but still sympathetic. It was time to put this idiotic Karofsky situation to rest. Sure, Blaine was all for helping the guy out of the closet-but not into naive little Kurt's tender arms. This guy was obviously a scumbag, even if he had apologized. And Blaine felt...protective of his delicate friend. That was what he'd felt when Kurt admitted to laying one on his bully. He was concerned, not jealous. Definitely not jealous. Totally not jealous."He bully's you, then kisses you, threatens to kill you, apologizes like the lead in a John Hughes movie, then bolts when you show interest. It's pretty apparent the boy has some serious emotional issues." Blaine squeezed Kurt's hand, a reassuring an intimate gesture when paired with his next line. "I just don't want him to hurt you again." It was delivered in a husky murmur, the smile melting slowly away to reveal his true, deep concern. He was about to drive it home with a _'I don't want anyone to ever hurt you'_, followed by a delicate kiss to the hand that would really drive the nail in Kurtofsky's coffin-but he was interrupted. Interrupted so offhandedly that he wondered if Kurt had heard a single thing he'd said.

"You know, its kind of romantic-"  
>"-in a twisted, trashy paperback sort of way." Blaine interjected, clearly annoyed. His patience had slipped away along with his smile. He simply could not believe this.<br>"Its a tragic plot," the younger boy continued dreamily. "A young man who falls hopelessly in love- but the object is forbidden him by the antiquated traditions of his rigid social status. Dutifully he tries to deny himself, but finds he cannot. Frightened by the intensity of his feelings he lashes out- driving his love running into the arms of another man. ( At this Blaine snorted. "The _better_ man." Kurt of course, took no notice.) Overcome with regret and disgusted by what he has become, he battles his inner demons, reconciles himself to the depth of his feeling, and humbles himself to apologize. Yet he harbors no hope of forgiveness-instead resigned to the inevitability that his ardor will remain forever unrequited!"  
>Kurt's skin was heavily flushed, pink lips slightly parted, breathing shallow. If only the Lima Bean had been equipped with a fainting couch.<br>Blaine stared open mouthed a moment before he managed to choke out "David Karofsky is _not_ some sort of modern day _Heathcliff_."  
>The quick response of "No, of course he isn't." probably would have been very comforting if it hadn't been followed by a breathless, "He's much more of a Mr. Darcy don't you think?"<p>

* * *

><p>What made me take this trip to Africa? Because Dave's soul was in Africa-sprinting directionless through a foreign and untamed landscape. It was monsoon season and he was washed away. Lost on the savanna, uniform grassland stretching as far as the eye could see. What day was it, what hour when Dave had become estranged to himself? But he knew it specifically, to the moment. The first time Kurt Hummel had glanced his way.<p>

He was soaked straight through his skin; the water saturating his nerves, his muscles, his bones. The cold numbed everything save the throbbing ache within his ribcage, the overwhelming awareness of his lips. And still the rain fell like angels, uninterested in the fate of man.

Dave was halfway home, condensation thick on the windows of his beat old Nissan flatbed before his thoughts were fit to walk the yellow line. And even then they were falling all over themselves, shoving and tripping half formed.

He almost wanted to find someone just to ask "Have you seen me lately?" To broadcast it on a radio station, on electric waves rocketing out of Middle America. Because every time Dave felt like he knew who he was, Hurricane Kurt came to shake him down.

Identity crisis. Love. Who the hell knew the difference?

He pulled into the driveway of his family's beige split level ranch, breaking violently. The Fury was becoming more incensed by the moment. The senseless rage, his silent companion for so long, swelled within him. Hazily he felt the dull pain in his hands and passively realized he was frantically beating the steering wheel. The plastic casing had broken near the top -jagged-and there was blood on his knuckles, but he watched trance like as his hands connected rhythmically over and over- keeping time with the insistent roar in his ears.

When Dave had finished, all he could hear was the pattering rain on the metal roof and his breath coming short and fast. Sanguine rivulets on his hands, small areas of splatter on the dashboard and cloth seats. His eyes ached, the area around them damp, red and feral in the rear-view reflection.

"You got a piece of me, but it's just a little piece of me." He muttered, turning his head away. Dave opened the door of his truck and walked slowly through the downpour towards the house. He was so _pathetic_. The door was locked, his parents wouldn't be home for hours. Dave let himself in and dripped dry in the foyer, still berating himself. The man of his dreams kisses him,_ voluntarily_ and what does he do? _You lost control._ _You're no better than a fucking **animal**._

The water and blood mixed, creating delicate rust colored patterns on the white tile. Honestly, he had reacted the same way he always had to Kurt, he had been consumed. And then, when his mind had regained some semblance of autonomy he had panicked. Dave sighed, stripping off the soaked red sweatshirt and the wife beater beneath, throwing them down in a heap. Wasn't this what therapy had been for? So he could keep a handle on all of theses foolish, nameless emotions? So he could actually use his brain? He growled, toeing out of his soggy socks and shoes. Fuck lot of good it had done him. His sweatpants hit the floor followed, after a moments hesitation, his damp compression shorts. His knuckles were beginning to scab over. Dave really wanted to keep hitting things. Really, really wanted to hit them.

Dave stalked through the silent house, up the stairs and into his bathroom. Olive drab and cream, very masculine. That's what his mother had said when she'd redecorated it. He avoided looking at his reflection and turned on the shower, hot; his muscles preemptively relaxing as hot steam filled the room.

* * *

><p>An hour or so later Dave finally turned off the scalding spray.<p>

He had three missed calls, and one message. One from his dad, one from a number he didn't know and one from...Finn Hudson? Just fucking great. Dave called his voice mail, and was relived to find that instead of an angry quarterback demanding that Dave stay the hell away from his brother- it was just his dad.

"Hey son, taking mom away for a romantic weekend. Sort of spur of the moment." Dave smiled into the receiver. His dad's voice had taken on the gruff, tough guy edge that he used when he was embarrassed. "Why don'tchya invite Azimo over to keep you company? I left plenty of cash over the refrigerator, so you guys can order pizza. Make good choices. I'll be checking in."

Dave stared at his phone a moment before tossing onto the bed. He really didn't feel like calling anyone back, and while he should have jumped at a guys night (or probably a weekend) full of junk food and Call of Duty- he didn't really feel up to hanging with Az. Honestly, he just wanted to go to bed and just forget about everything. Forget about Kurt's cool mouth and hot tongue. The way the anger in his eyes had burned,and burned and _burned_. The way he had felt pressed against him, like Dave was all he ever wanted. Like Dave wanted.

Dave knew if he closed his eyes he could conjure him- the sent of something so clean beneath his cologne, the brush of his unbearably soft lips, the sound of delicate breath-furious and shallow. How he had skin like a statue, milk white and pure, carved by an artist who's hand is demure. Every contour of Kurt's body Dave had mapped carefully with each stolen touch. The anatomy of a ghost. All the little things that make up a memory.

But he wouldn't. He now knew himself to be totally unworthy. So he slept.

* * *

><p>He woke in the dark hours before the sun. He tried to return to blissful oblivion, futile an effort in itself. He lay there, counting sheep, tiles, clearing his mind. He used to hope that if he just didn't think about something, it wasn't real. Old habits, he mused.<p>

The phone buzzed on his beside table. Once, twice. _Jesus fucking Christ Az, it's four in the morning._ Not that Dave wasn't happy for the distraction.

"Dude." Dave tried to impart every ounce of his good-natured chagrin in that single drawn out syllable.

"Oh," Said a high, breathless voice on the other end. "I didn't- I didn't think you pick up. I'm sorry I woke you."

"No I was-I've been awake."

"Oh."

There was silence.

"I wanted to apologize-"

Dave cut him off quickly. Undoubtedly Kurt regretted kissing him. That didn't mean Dave could bear to hear him say it.

"No. I'm the one who's sorry."

"You never told me why...? I mean, about Tuesday night."

"I just wanted you to know I was sorry. Really sorry." Was it really so hard for Kurt to find him repentant? The thought made Dave's stomach lurch. He was so fucking _pathetic_.

"No I mean-why that _way_, why that _song."_

Dave inhaled sharply, an unexpected reflex. "I didn't know how to say it without sounding stupid or...insincere_._" A beat and then, " Idunno, I thought that something like that- something you know _dramatic_." God, this was so fucking hard. His breathe was shaky. "I thought you'd want that. Just walking up to you and saying 'fuck man, we cool?' It just wouldn't _do it_ for you."

There was a long unbroken silence. Dave felt numb. Blank. Maybe if he told him that he had planned for months, a fantasy, an idea that if he only did it exactly the right way, exactly the way Kurt had dreamed someone would apologize then maybe...maybe he could be everything Kurt wanted. Like a coloring book page prince charming. Come on and color me in, give me your blue rain and black sky. Give me your green eyes. Just give me your white skin.

He could remember Kurt's beautiful white skin. Forget he had a tongue like a sabre, razor sharp and sure. Although, he could always be reminded.

"Why did you run away?"

Dave almost dropped the phone. "What? What do you-?"

"David."

"What if someone had seen? What if someone had seen and I had...hurt you."

"You're in love with me." It wasn't a question, an accusation or a revelation. It was said with the same inflection used when one said that the sky was blue.

"I'm not in love with you!" Dave's voice was rough, strained, but the soft and broken tone with which he spoke next told everything in nothing. "How- how could I be in love with you?"

"When you're seventeen, it's always love."

_Click_

* * *

><p>First, I blamed the delay on finals. But once finals were over I realized- this chapter was just hard for me to write. Even now, I'm not sure it was done correctly.<p>

Comments and Criticism are always appreciated.

Listen to: _Have You Seen Me Lately_ and _Four Stallions_. Both by the Counting Crows._  
><em>


	6. Like Lions

Hey Kids,

It's been awhile.

* * *

><p>Ch.6 Like Lions<p>

Kurt placed his cellphone gently back on his bedside table. In the still pre-dawn hour he could hear all the sounds that make up silence. The familiar, but now faint creaks of the old part of the house, the rain's steady drumbeat playing out on his window, the rhythmic cycle of his own breath. He pulled his legs tighter against his chest, the arms encircling them a binding force. His head dropped until it rested against his knee, the silk of his pajama pants cool against his heated cheek. Thickly fringed orbs stared sightlessly into the dark.

Surely he was going mad. To even consider this.

The sky lightened as he walked downstairs, his footing steady and unafraid. The rain had slowed and stopped without his realizing. He slipped out the front door like a ghost, into the fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white. In the chill Kurt wrapped his arms around his bare chest, and stared up at the faint outline of the moon. It had all the answers. In the lunar landscape was a strangeness, a scent of possibility. He could walk between the rain, through himself and back again. But where? He didn't know. But for once, there was a clarity, clear beyond crystal. Why?

The differences between wrong and right were crumbling around him.

* * *

><p>Dave missed the rain.<p>

The rain had been a constant presence; a reassuring entity since it began. Each drop had been followed by its fellow- a predictable force. If he had wanted to, he might have counted the beat out loud; a metronome of nature. Dave liked knowing what to expect. But-as he lay awake in bed, he found his steadfast companion slow and become inconsistent, even erratic. What had been so sure and unremitting was reduced to fine mist and droplets left behind on his windowpane. He watched silent and still as the sun rose unapologetically into the sky, burning off all remnants of reassurance.

He dragged himself from bed around one. Dave wasn't hungry, but still he stood in the fridge door, and he stood up straight. Habits. Round here, we always stand up straight. That was Dave. If his parents had ingrained nothing else within him, it was this. Perfect posturing.

He stared at the milk carton. Through the solid figures of the nutritional facts he managed to convince himself last night was a dream. A fantasy. He checked his phone, the yet unclassified number, the times received. Binary wouldn't lie. The door clicked close.

Dave couldn't help but glance back down at at the phone clutched in his hand... again. Maybe last night was... Well, maybe he should call Kurt back.

Calling someone in the middle of the night, that had to mean something. Right? He fiddled with the phone a moment before dropping it on the kitchen table. Everything that had happened, that kiss, everything- it had to be more than just Kurt fucking with him. Right?

_But it's only in my head. I know, it's only in my head._

He just needed to take his mind off things. He was reading to much into this. Dave abandoned the pretense that he might eat and headed back upstairs, pausing by his bookshelf before throwing himself back upon the mussed comforter. The paperback in his hand fell open and Dave attempted to immerse himself in the distraction. But like the rain, a book must end.

* * *

><p>Kurt was startled, but not surprised when he heard his cell phone sing. Three little tonal bars that signify a text message. It was, however, later than expected; the sun was already sinking in the sky. Not that he had been expecting anything. The phone wasn't in his hand per say, but it was only the slightest twitch of a finger to the right.<p>

**Mr. Jones:** Meet me? the back parking lot at school?

There was a beat, just enough for the insecure before-

**Mr. Jones:** I jst wnt to talk. you knw, face to face.

The right corner of Kurt's mouth turned up thoughtlessly, his thumbs typing a reply.

* * *

><p>The diver's side door of the black explorer slammed shut, followed by the quick 'beep beep' of the locking system. Dave was waiting; sitting on the tailgate of his beat up Nissan, clutching a cardboard coffee cup staring out into the west. The sun was sitting low, half hidden in the sky, grey and gold. Kurt walked over, trying not to hurry, trying not to seem to slow.<p>

"Hey."

Dave looked at him, and for a moment there was unprecedented silence. An silence that said something profound, for that moment Kurt was sure.

The moment passed, and Dave smiled tentatively as he picked a second cup up from beside him. "Hey." He held it out, offering. His movements were smooth, gentle and slow. The way a man moves around an animal; a creature exotic, nervous, dangerous.

Kurt took the proffered beverage with mirrored measured movements. He took a small polite sip, and nearly choked. "Grande nonfat mocha?"

Dave shrugged, head down and cheeks reddening. "You asked that Jones chick to get it for you once and I just...remembered?" He coughed awkwardly, then growled out "I mean it was just such a fruity order- how could I forget?"

Kurt scowled. "Oh and I suppose yours is the absolute distillation of red blooded American Male?" Bitch face, engage.

"Look, maybe this was a mistake if you're going to be so freaking _combative_-"

"Maybe those who live in glass closets shouldn't throw stones!"

There was a silence, a furious standoff, and at the end a decided winner. The bigger boy sighed and sagged, defeated. "Look, Kurt I didn't mean it like that. I..." He ran a hand through his short hair, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I just get so defensive when I'm..."

The face he was making was so cute Kurt almost felt bad about yelling at him. Almost.

"I just I...I have trouble acting normal when I'm...nervous."

"Oh." Kurt stood silently a moment before awkwardly resting his hand on one of Dave's beefy, calloused ones. Dave stared at the two hands laying on the rusted truck bed for a moment, and Kurt found himself unable to read the expression on jock's face. The larger boy looked up from their hands to Kurt's face. Kurt had never seen so many shades of brown and gold, so much pain.

For some unexamined reason he felt his porcelain skin heat up and discolor in embarrassment. Kurt drew his hand back quickly and attempted to shove it into the pocket of his skinny jeans. Upon finding that it wouldn't fit, he settled for playing with the hem of his button down. "So um, what did you want to talk about?" He had been going for nonchalance, but he had a sickening feeling that for the first time his acting skills had failed him.

"I uh, dunno."

"Oh...then-"

"-can I just show you something instead?"

Kurt nodded, wordless and unsure. A warm sensation was constricting his chest, running through his synapses, settling in the bottom of his throat. Dave's smile was new and open, and he marveled at how people change one moment to the next. Unexpected yet predicted like the weather.

"C'mon."

* * *

><p>"This is probably the highest point in Lima." He was really only half joking. The roof of McKinley High Auditorium wasn't hard to get too. He and Az had discovered it their first week of football, back when they were only freshman. The extra key, badly hidden on a hook beneath the bleachers which opened the locker room door. The supply closet near the showers with the rusty access ladder, and never bolted trapdoor that opened onto the roof. From there it was a hop over a small partition and another short climb, and a man could see right across the tiny town where he lived and out into the wide world. Ah, perspective.<p>

Dave shook his head, dropping to a seat on the ledge. He motioned to the spot beside him, taking a long drought from his mug and staring at the thunderheads on the horizon. Careful not to look when he saw Kurt's legs swing over the edge. Careful not to look when he felt a separate heat settle beside him.

"I come here sometimes, when I'm thinking of jumping." Dave laughed, not bitterly but resigned. "I guess I'm tired of life."

"You must be tired of something."

Dave wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't that. A man says something like that, bares something like death and he expects a reaction. But then were had that even come from? He hadn't meant to say something like that at all and now... He watched Kurt surreptitiously in the peripheral, not sure how to respond. Luckily he didn't have to.

"Why me?"

Dave aloud himself a glance, to gaze upon the clean line's of Kurt's porcelain profile. "What?"

Kurt white fingers shifted, his long, delicate digits moving to tangle aimlessly in his teal scarf. "Exactly what I said. Why me? We aren't friends, we don't run in the same circles." He gifted Dave with a sidelong glance, and a tentative half smile. "Just look at us, and you can see we have absolutely nothing in common. I mean, I'm absolutely fabulous and you're, you know, "duke stud."

Dave wasn't sure what mortified him more, the fact that Santana had shared his pitiful attempt at a heterosexual pickup, or that Kurt had actually used his fingers to make quotations in the air. Kurt however, didn't seem to notice the jocks steady reddening. Once Kurt Hummel prepared a monologue, Barbra herself could not distract him."In all honesty, I don't think I've ever said three words to you that weren't part of a witty barb. Even before you started showering me in frozen food dye. So Gaga knows it wasn't because I was nice to you." Dave stared at him a moment, before realizing that his mouth was slightly hanging open. Smooth. He closed his gaping maw and looked out over the landscape again. Maybe a rouge billboard would provide him with a response.

"Do you read? Like, non-required. I mean, not for school." Dave pushed himself to his feet and walked back toward the center of the roof. He was so unprepared for this, it was almost painful. He kept talking. He was so _bad_ at talking. Maybe if he just kept talking it would come out.

"My favorites are guys like Hemingway, Kipling, Joyce, Fittzgerald...the old Greats, you know? Modern authors, they never quite get it." He was talking to fast, clinging desperately. Dave glanced back, with what he hoped was a rakish grin. It was wasted. Kurt hadn't even turned to look at him.

Of course not.

But Dave soldiered on, unable however to curb the resentful hurt that found its way into his voice. "The mother-fucking human condition. Anyway-" He kicked a loose stone spitefully across the flat space, over the abyss, into the encroaching darkness."-'It's usually the selfish people who are loved the most. They do what you deny yourself, and you love them for it. You- you give them your heart.' I don't remember who said it, but I remember it. That's what counts right?"'

"Oh, so now I'm _selfish_?"

Dave spun, and was sickly gratified to see Kurt was on his feet, hands clenched, silhouetted in the dusk. Of course selfish was the only thing he took away from that. But Kurt Hummel wasn't the only one to prepare a soliloquy.

"You did everything that I was to scared to. Everyday you stand up to people who are three times your size. You never compromise. You don't just embrace yourself, you throw it in everyone's face. You flaunted it in _my_ face. Everything I could never let myself have, everything I could never let myself_ be._" Dave paused. somehow the space had closed between them and he lowered his voice, suddenly embarrassed. He could feel himself shutting down, hear the defensive edge, the gruffness. And Dave hated himself for it. He shrugged again, avoiding Kurt's eyes. "That's why. Not because you're beautiful, not because you're clever, not because your talented. It's because you're a self righteous little bitch and I want you and I want to _be_ you and I just...can't help it."

His eyes were fixed firmly on the concrete beneath him now. When all the machismo was stripped away, there was nothing but a yellow streak. _ The stupid thing about telling people anything. They only hear what they want to hear. And its never fucking what you mean.  
><em>

Suddenly everything had become to real, to honest, too impossible for him to bear._  
><em>

"Wait. You can't just _leave!_"

* * *

><p>Kurt stepped closer, shamelessly breaking that unspoken but ever present barrier between innocuous and intimate. "You've done something to me-something I- "He stopped. He was close and just not close enough. Dave was so still. He could hear his stillness, the buffeting wind, the breathing of the world. This was just madness-he could still turn and run- but the words came anyway- rasped , broken in their incomplete design and all-consuming desperation. "I want."<p>

That voiceless chant that had plagued him since that dreamlike night, specifics denied him. But it was senseless to dwell on now- Kurt's hands were somehow roaming over thin jersey; he could feel the heat beneath it, the solid rawness of a man. There was pressure in the small of his back, one huge splayed, calloused hand unyielding, caressing the skin beneath the hem of his silk shirt.

But still Dave was hesitant. In the silence; and Kurt could feel Dave's mouth ghost against his temple, the pressure of the taller boy's face hidden in his hair. "I never thought you 'd believed in second chances."

Kurt bit back a reflexive remark. It was true, wasn't it? _I don't believe in anything. But I…_" I …l want to be someone who believes."

Dave's head dropped lower, pressing a kiss into Kurt's long exposed neck. His voice was ragged, singsong and exposed.

"So come on baby, oh, believe in me."

* * *

><p>Round Here and Mr Jones (Acoustic Version) by the Counting Crows. Dave's quote is from an interview with the author Saul Bellows.<p>

I won't lie, I posted this as soon as I finished because:

a. I've been caught on it so long I'm sick of it.

b. It's been what, 2, 3 months since the last update?

So please, review, correct me, and be brutal.

-The Neverender

PS: You'll be pleased to know the next chapter is already half done. xo N.E.


	7. The Rain King

Ch.7: The Rain King

There are two types of people in this world, separated as most things are; definitively by sex. There are those who focus on the task at hand, immersing themselves down and dirty in the earth, in the tactile sensations and scents of lust and love and living. And then there are the few who fly high above the act, delivered in a black winged bird unto a heaven; an ecstasy of disconnected mentality taking in everything and nothing, caught up in all the other instruments of faith and sex and God. And Dave was caught in the updraft; soaring in the belly of a black winged bird.

A question of those that be, and those that will become.

There was a warmth wakening, curling beneath his navel. Accompanied with it, a sensation of panic and anticipation tempered by the impulse to run off the side of the world while standing completely still. In the violet pane of twilight he memorized the way the shadows fell on his lover's face, kissing with his eyes open. The air swirled with petrichor, ozone, and expensive cologne. As the night came on, Dave struggled to fight the fear that this was only in his head. In his experience it seemed the night endlessly began and ended with these visions, and after all the dreaming he was only home, alone again.

He pulled Kurt tight against him, a reassurance of corporeality; his broad hands encircling a tiny waist, with skin so soft- as soft and taunt as he'd fantasized it would be. Dave's eyes fluttered closed as Kurt bit his lower lip, the smaller boy letting go a breathy moan. It was as if to have all the senses was to much, and Dave had to pick and choose or be consumed. He whimpered at the prospect.

Kurt's hands were wandering, light and restless along the contours of his body. One hand pushed up between the old grey jersey t-shirt and Dave's fevered skin, up over the solid planes of his stomach, winding into his chest hair, grasping, making Dave shiver. The other was relentless; coiling around his thick neck, running through his hair, resting on his face- the pad of the thumb ghosting over his cheekbone.

Mouths moving in tandem, furious and hungry. Coming apart and putting back together with hands incessantly roaming. Kurt tasted like the sun, his tongue burning, branding and irresistible. Dave's mouth moved from delicate rose flavored lips to dance lightly along a smooth jawline, pausing at the pulse point- nipping with his teeth and then apologetically licking away the sting. Dave's hands had fallen without his consent, one shamelessly groping Kurt's muscled ass as the other rubbed circles into the jutting china hipbone; Dave's finger's dipping teasingly just beneath the band of the other's skinny jeans. There was an answering rigidity pressed against his thigh, grinding against Dave in a way that made him want and want and _want._

"Could I- I" His breath was coming fast an ragged. Thought and sound resisted being coalesced. "I mean would it be alright if I...?"

"_Touch me_." Kurt groaned, arching himself licentiously into David. Another tremor irradiated throughout Dave's body. Suddenly he was so lightheaded, all the blood in his body seemingly needed immediately elsewhere.

It's amazing how obstinate buttons can be when a man is in a hurry.

Somehow, Dave's clumsy fingers managed. Something warm and thick and wet fell eagerly into his waiting hand. It took a moment as his fingers danced along the length, as his mouth crashed back down upon soft and yielding lips to realize that Kurt wasn't wearing underwear. He swore.

And then he fell reverently to his knees.

Dave licked his lips before taking the bottom one between his teeth, lifting his gaze in supplication. Kurt's hands twined in his hair, stroked the back of his neck, but his china face was thrown back, eyes on the darkened, starless sky.

Hesitantly, Dave leaned forward to place a kiss on tip, a ghost of a thought really. He saw Kurt's body tremble, he heard the breathy moan on high. But Dave was intoxicated by the scent. This was the smell that hid beneath that infuriating cologne, the second note that Dave would pick out at the strangest moments, the clean sent of sex. _And this, _he couldn't help but think as he slowly ran the flat of his tongue along the underside of Kurt's cock,_ this is the taste of a man._

Dave released a guttural, debasing moan; a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He took Kurt into his mouth a bit over zealously, gagging himself until he grudgingly released the length, licking and sucking enthusiastically if not skilled. Kurt's hot, desperate little noises drove Dave into fervor, a wild and untameable high that caused his movements to become erratic, for his teeth to carelessly graze delicate skin. Kurt's fingers tangled in Dave's hair as he drove himself mercilessly into the larger boy's mouth. Dave was only vacantly aware of any one sensation, torn exquisitely between the painful ache of his own constrained erection and the pleasure of fulfilling his most unattainable fantasy. Separate from himself, his body moved of it's own accord; his left unbuttoning his jeans, his right anchoring himself on white cliffs of flesh.

Kurt was speaking to him, a driving incantation of broken words and breathy exhalation that rose above the roaring sound that was this _moment_. A sacred mantra of please, and god and David and fuck, Fuck, _FUCK._ Something warm and _ tangy_, salty and sweet exploded across Dave's tongue. He was yanked up fiercely, Kurt vicious and strong in his movements, demanding as their teeth crashed together, ferocious.

Tasting himself on Dave's tongue.

And Kurt was touching him, the alien and _not_ unpleasant feeling of being taken in hand, by a hand that was most definitely not his own, that was soft and small and quick and caressing him to desperation.

Disconnected images came floating through his thoughts; dark eyes heavily lashed-Henderson waiting for the sun-a passage from a book he'd read long ago.

_'The forgiveness of sins is perpetual and righteousness is not required.'  
><em>

He dimly remembered that revelation being so important to the story, the book eluded him. But it was lost between the nerve ending fire, white as grain alcohol in summer. The electric storm flying on the back of black winged birds, before being dropped back to the hard reassuring earth.

When they broke Dave was breathless. He couldn't get enough oxygen, there never would be enough oxygen. They clung together, still as if the slightest movement would be the end of everything. Faintly over his harsh and ragged breath Dave thought heard Kurt whisper into the crook of his neck.

Dave wasn't prepared, he hadn't practiced. Any other time and he would have over analyzed, thus becoming paralyzed, snuffing out this moment. But what is life but improvisation, what is life but sudden intrusions of beauty? To move when moved, to live fearless. And so he sang, just within the range of hearing, roughly and most likely out of key, the first thing that came to mind.

"I belong in the service of the Queen

I belong anywhere but in between

She's been dying

I've been drinking and I...

I...am...the Rain King."

**End.**

* * *

><p>Music- The Rain King x The Counting Crows<p>

Well, that took far to long to write. I kind of stared at it for three months after it was done hoping I could improve it.

Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, fave'd or set this story on alert.

I feel like this scene was...melodramatic? Even for me. Idunno, I'd especially like some feed back on that in particular. Also, was I to wordy? Not descriptive enough? Clinical or to flowery? Sexy?

I'd also really appreciate feedback on my use of lyrics/prose throughout the piece. I directly quoted and paraphrased from both the work of the **Counting Crows** and the novel _Henderson the Rain King_ by Saul Bellows. Did it come off as heavy handed or contrived? Was it even noticeable? Was it effective? Show of hands of how many people are familiar with the novel?

Thanks again guys

- The Neverender

PS. In my head, right after this heartfelt little love scene, as the afterglow is wearing off, Kurt totes gestures to his pants and says. "Well, thanks for ruining yet another piece of my wardrobe."


End file.
